


Summer Sweat

by nautilicious



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Established Relationship, Gift Exchange, Knifeplay, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Kink, Rimming, summerlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 22:04:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2084790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nautilicious/pseuds/nautilicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Summerlock exchange. CS prompted: Sherlock gets himself trapped in a small space while trying to go after a piece of evidence, and John must figure out how to get him unstuck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer Sweat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [consulting_smartass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass/gifts).



> Thanks to airynothing and missoj for the initial plotting conversation, to interrosand and tomato-greens for the rigorous beta and wordcrafting advice, and to the antidiogenes chatroom for support.

John wiped his hand across his damp forehead. It had been bad enough outside, with London at the mercy of a heat wave that made everyone cross and sweaty, but today’s madness had dragged him into an office building where they shut off the air-conditioning on the weekends. A cost-cutting measure, John supposed, but he’d like a word with the penny-pinching bureaucrats who made the decision. Even Sherlock, who always managed to look cool and collected, had a faint sheen to his skin.

John’s body, on the other hand, knew how to sweat: the armpits of his dreadful polyester janitor’s uniform felt unpleasantly sodden. He pushed a broom around, monitoring the hallway while Sherlock searched the small cluster of cubicles for the purloined data drive. John hoped he’d find it quickly; Mrs Hudson had promised to have a pitcher of her fresh-squeezed lemonade waiting when they got home.

John continued his ineffectual sweeping, his mind already back in 221B. He’d take a lukewarm shower as soon as they got home, and then he’d sprawl on the bed, naked and damp with the fan cooling his skin. In Sherlock’s room, he decided. Sherlock’s sheets would feel cooler than John’s. They’d only started sleeping together a week ago, but John felt confident that he could get Sherlock naked in bed with him despite being On a Case, and not just because Sherlock had a fondness for Mrs Hudson’s lemonade.

John allowed his attention to drift from the sounds of Sherlock pulling out drawers and scrutinizing keyboards. The memories of their first night together, on frequent replay in the last week—their mouths coming together in a desperate crash, the jumble of hands and bodies in the dark—still felt fresh and strange despite the nights they’d spent together since.

“The ducts,” Sherlock said, spinning abruptly to face the rear wall of the office. “Of course.” He retrieved a tool from the pocket of his uniform and pulled over a chair. He climbed up on it and had the screws out in a trice, immediately sticking his head into the vent. “The dust is disturbed!” The duct muffled Sherlock’s voice but the note of triumph was unmistakable.

John put some serious consideration into what he might do with Sherlock when they returned home, because surely they’d finish here at any moment.

Sherlock pulled his head back out of the vent. “I’ll have to crawl in,” he told John. “I think McInnes put it farther back.”

John frowned. “You’ve got at least a stone on McInnes; will you fit in there?”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “I know the dimensions of my body quite accurately. I’ll fit.” He turned back toward the duct and boosted himself inside. John could tell from the doorway that it would be a tight fit by the way Sherlock hunched up his shoulders.

“You’ve got a broader chest than McInnes,” John pointed out. Sherlock grunted in response. His torso slowly disappeared inside but his arse remained quite nicely in view. John leaned against the doorframe, appreciating the way the edge of the duct pulled the fabric of the hideous janitor’s coverall tight against Sherlock’s lush curves. John heard a scuffling noise, a loud sneeze, and a thudding sound he suspected was Sherlock’s head against the ducting. The scuffling noises continued for a few minutes, then stopped abruptly.

“Damn,” Sherlock said. “I can see the drive but the duct narrows. I’m going to need something to extend my reach.” John watched Sherlock’s arse perform a set of mouthwatering undulations as Sherlock began to back himself out. He mentally updated his list of Things to Do with a Naked Sherlock as Soon as Possible: they hadn’t had more than a few scorchingly hot caresses in the arse area so far, and John—all of John—was ready for more. Just thinking about it made his cock fill a little, pressing insistently against his inseam.

The fascinating wriggling continued with such vigor and duration that John began to suspect Sherlock of being enticing on purpose. But no, it wasn’t some ploy to drive John mad, because then Sherlock went still and silent for a long moment before he said, “John, I think I’m stuck.”

John fought back a laugh. “Seriously?” he asked.

Sherlock’s disgruntlement carried clearly despite the muffling of the duct. “It’s not funny.”

“Oh, it really is,” John said. “I thought you 'knew the dimensions of your body?' Better than me, who is, by the way, a doctor who has seen more bodies than you, and also has seen you naked. Not that I had to be a doctor for this one; McInnes is scrawny and you aren’t.”

“No,” Sherlock said, “I’m not, but the duct isn’t as narrow as all that. I’m not sure why—“

John recognized a thinking silence when he heard one. He put down the broom.

“Breakfast. You served me a fry-up this morning to celebrate the anniversary of a week of satisfying sexual encounters. I ate it, because, regardless of how irritating I find it, sex makes me hungry. My stomach is never this full. And—“

“Wait a minute,” John said. He refused to respond to Sherlock’s thinly-veiled accusation of sentiment, because who celebrates a week anniversary? He’d just wanted a decadent breakfast after a stunning round of lazy morning sex, and had been in a good mood. A week-long good mood, actually, and—oh, goddamnit. Maybe he had been celebrating a bit. But—“What do you mean, you find sex irritating?”

“No, John. Being hungry irritates me, not having sex, as my vocal response to you this morning should have made obvious.”

John flushed, remembering Sherlock panting, his head thrown back, sweat glistening on his chest as John sucked him down to the root. His cock began to take interest in the proceedings again.

Sherlock went on. “Rashers. And those cinnamon pastries you brought home: full of salt, you should know that, being a doctor. Too much food, too much salt; hence my situation.” He delivered the deduction without his usual enthusiasm.

“Well,” John said, “let me see what I can do.” He brought over another chair and stood on it. It felt a little precarious to be up so high, with his hair brushing against the ceiling as he considered the situation. He had always thought that Sherlock had the advantage over him, viewing the world from a height like this, but John had the advantage of common sense: he’d never once got himself wedged in an air duct.

He reached forward and gripped Sherlock’s hips. John could not ignore how suggestive his body found their position; it distracted him with visions of having Sherlock bent over like this for completely different reasons. Sherlock shifted in the duct, his arse rubbing against John’s solar plexus, which did not help. John pulled, but Sherlock didn’t shift at all. John pulled again, harder, and Sherlock made a sharp yelp of pain.

“John, stop!” John did, immediately. “The edge of the duct is quite close to my genital organs,” Sherlock reported, his tone sounding strangled. John took heed; this approach could damage a part of Sherlock that John had just recently come to appreciate.

John thought it over for a moment. “Well, you ought to have digested enough to move in an hour or so,” he said. “Or possibly you’ll have sweated enough to have shed some weight by then. We’ll just have to wait. Unless you want me to go get help?”

“No,” Sherlock said. He sounded more thoughtful than upset.

John stroked his hand over the small of Sherlock’s back. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll keep you company.”

John looked at his hand on Sherlock’s back. John thought about the half-hard erection in his trousers. John thought about Sherlock’s arse, conveniently placed at chest height. John began to smile. The hand rubbing Sherlock’s back slowly made its way down over the curve of Sherlock’s body. Sherlock twitched as John began to knead his flesh.

“John?” John heard uncertainty in Sherlock’s voice, but also breathiness: this was a man who ran into danger at every opportunity, a man just as enlivened by the chase as John. John leaned forward, pitching his voice low. “You’re trapped in there, Sherlock. I can do whatever I want to you, and you can’t stop me.”

Sherlock’s gasp echoed against the metal surrounding him, and satisfaction heated inside John’s chest. Oh, yes; this would be just the thing to pass the time. John fished his knife out of his pocket, glad he’d brought it after all. It made a click when he opened it and Sherlock startled under his hand. John trailed the blade gently down the back of Sherlock’s coveralls, and then sliced into the elastic at the waist. He worked quickly but with care, parting the fabric above Sherlock’s pants. When he grazed the knife against Sherlock’s skin it was deliberate, and he felt gratified to note the acceleration of Sherlock’s breathing. John set aside the knife and then peeled down Sherlock’s clothing.

He didn’t touch Sherlock for a moment, imagining him in the dimness of the duct wondering what John would do next. “I could leave you here,” John said. “Exposed. Helpless. Anyone could come along and see you. Have you.” Sherlock shuddered. Without seeing his face, John couldn’t tell if it was desire or fear that caused the motion, so he added, “but then I’d have to share. And I won’t share you, Sherlock.” Sherlock shuddered again, a low groan telling John that he’d found the right approach. He leaned forward and breathed against the curve of Sherlock’s arse. “You’re mine.”

“John,” Sherlock said, and John knew how Sherlock looked when his mouth shaped John’s name that way, his eyes wide and infused with want and surprise. John felt it too, everything still so new and raw, laced with a trembling disbelief that sometimes overwhelmed him. John let go of the rather elaborate domination scenario he’d been constructing in his head in favor of responding to the vulnerability and yearning in Sherlock’s voice.

“God, I want you so much,” John said, his voice breaking. His chest ached with it. John buried his face in Sherlock’s arse. They’d showered this morning but Sherlock tasted of sweat; John felt the taste of earth and sea filling his mouth as he laved against the tender, wrinkled skin. Sherlock cried out, and then John heard a loud clang. John huffed a small laugh against Sherlock’s quivering flesh, figuring that Sherlock had hit his head again. He licked and licked, his tongue diving in and out of Sherlock’s body until the muscle underneath his lips began to soften and Sherlock’s moans echoed continuously in the ducts.

John pulled back, watching Sherlock’s arsehole contract. It seemed clear that Sherlock wanted John inside as much as John wanted to be inside him. John felt weak with wanting, his desire to fuck Sherlock nearly unbearable, but he didn’t have quite enough room and he didn’t want the first time they tried this to be quite so awkward. Instead, John sucked his index finger into his mouth, covering it with saliva loudly enough that Sherlock could hear. Then he circled Sherlock’s entrance with his finger, dipping the tip gently in and out.

“Please,” Sherlock said, and John could count on one hand the number of times he’d heard that word from Sherlock. John had to close his eyes a moment and breathe in deeply before he could slowly press his finger farther inside. John wanted nothing more than to fill Sherlock with as many fingers as he could stand, but he couldn’t do that with just saliva. Fortunately, it only took one encounter in an unusual location for John to start carrying lube around with him—especially since he’d ended up a bit chafed after that time in the alley. He had to stop touching Sherlock to retrieve the small medical sample tucked into his pocket, and Sherlock’s needy, desperate whine nearly made John drop the packet.

When he pressed a slick finger inside, Sherlock gasped John’s name but John took his time, going slow until he had two fingers fucking Sherlock in long strokes. He tried a firm touch against Sherlock’s prostate and bit his lip when Sherlock answered with a guttural groan. Sherlock had figured out how to thrust back against John’s hand despite his limited mobility and John could hear the front of Sherlock’s pants rubbing against the bottom of the duct. He hoped it gave Sherlock good pressure against his cock because John felt almost cross-eyed with lust.

The timbre of Sherlock’s cries had gone high-pitched and sharp, his breath harsh and gasping, and John knew that Sherlock was close. John reached into his own trousers and began to tug roughly at his cock, the pleasure of it stealing his breath. “Sherlock, I’m going to come, I’m going to come all over you,” John gasped. Sherlock himself came, howling with pleasure, the sound so magnified by the acoustics of the ductwork that John felt surrounded by it; and then John came with a shout of his own.

John gently extracted his fingers from Sherlock’s body and found he had to sit down because his legs felt so wobbly. After a moment he wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s calf. “You okay?”

Sherlock made a vigorous motion and popped himself out of the duct. “Yes,” he said. His face was wet with sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead, and his cheeks flushed. He stumbled towards the floor and collapsed into the chair, looking just as unbalanced and shagged-out as John felt.

“How did you get free?” John asked.

Sherlock grinned. “I was only stuck for a minute,” he said. “You pulled me most of the way out that second time, and I managed the rest.”

“Then why—“ John closed his mouth as Sherlock gave him a smug look. John laughed. “Christ, you’re amazing,” he said.

Sherlock beamed. He stood, then grabbed at where the back of his coverall flapped down to his knees. John snickered and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, but with no real heat behind it.

“You’ll have to do it, then.” He gestured to John’s abandoned broom. “Get the drive.” 

John did, the flat head of the broom just the right size to sweep the drive into his hand. They exchanged a grin. John wanted to kiss him, to pull him close and explore how it would feel to have his hands full of Sherlock’s bare arse while their clothed bodies rubbed together and God help him, if he’d been twenty years younger he’d have been hard again. Sherlock did not seem to notice, striding to the door with as much dignity as he could manage while clutching at the rear of his coverall.

“That was inventive and enjoyable,” Sherlock said, “but—" He frowned, a real one this time.

“Now you’ve got to get home without flashing half of London,” John finished. He took out his knife and cut away the top of his own coverall, above the elastic, and handed it to Sherlock. John looked rather strange, wearing only the lower half of a janitor’s uniform, as did Sherlock when he tied the sleeves of John’s coverall around his waist, but it would have to do.

Sherlock ran a hand through his sweaty hair, leaving a streak of dust behind. “Ugh, I need a shower, I am still covered in sweat.”

John felt his affection for Sherlock like a wash of warm sunlight in his chest. He nodded, thinking of the cool sheets and icy lemonade awaiting them at Baker Street. “We both need a shower,” he said. “But I wouldn’t expect to stay unsweaty for long.”


End file.
